


leave me aching

by orphan_account



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alvin Marsh is His Own Warning, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blackmail, Cheerleader Eddie Kaspbrak, Connor’s a closet case, F/M, Fist Fights, Gay Richie Tozier, Homophobia, I REGRET NOTHING, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, being outed, connor and richie are secret fuck buddies, richie is somewhat popular
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24593005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Richie Tozier is just trying to get by. He has two best friends who he’d do anything for,  parents who he can’t decide if they like him or not, a semi-dangerous and incredibly closeted hookup buddy, and one huge ass secret.Eddie Kaspbrak fits in there somewhere.In which Connor Bowers and Richie are complicated friends with benefits, Stan is a saint amongst best friends, Wentworth and Maggie Tozier are either trying their best or not trying at all, and Richie somehow falls in love with a certain fiery brunette who makes him feel okay.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier, Connor Bowers/Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris
Comments: 5
Kudos: 40





	1. richie has a shitty day

**Author's Note:**

> hello>:3c i’ve been in the IT fandom for a while and i just realized i’ve never uploaded any written fics???? for some reason??? i’ve recently left the fandom but i’ve been working on this fic since december and i decided to finally share it!! i’m really proud and it’s going to be a bit of a rollercoaster. i might be adding to the tags in the future. my instagram is @val_kurry by the way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good afternoon, parental figure,” he says, dramatically posing in the doorway.
> 
> Wentworth is sitting at his desk, typing away at his desktop. Delicate glasses are perched on his nose as he looks up at the boy. “Greetings, problem child.”

Richie Tozier doesn’t believe in fairy tales. 

Maybe it’s because of the unrealistic nature of it all—in what world exists fire breathing dragons and evil witches and golden-haired princesses, where everyone lives happily ever after with nothing but some magical spells to solve their problems? Magic doesn’t fucking _exist_ , first off, so it seems like fairy tales are just some cheap ploy to disappoint children when they grow up and face the harsh realities of life. (okay, maybe it seems a bit pessimistic, but it’s true.)

His life is pretty simple. He has two best friends named Stanley and Beverly. Stan is a curly haired, grandma-ish, bird watching jewish boy. Beverly is a hot headed ginger with nice tits and great taste in combat boots (he means ‘nice tits’ in a totally platonic way—again, he likes dick and dick exclusively).

Stan and Richie have known each other since elementary school when Richie punched the boy in the face at recess for being a tattletale. (It was justified! Richie was just minding his own business and trying to stomp on a butterfly, and then Stan just had to go and be a snitch!) They eventually made amends in sixth grade when they were stuck sitting next to each other in home room. It went along the lines of this:

“Sorry for breaking your face when we were eight.”

“Sorry for telling Ms. Crandall on you. But you were being a dick to that butterfly.’”

And, well, they’ve been the best of friends since. Not that Stan would ever admit it, but that’s okay. Stan’s a big wuss anyways. 

He met Beverly in the beginning of seventh grade at Keene’s drug store. They both had met in the parking lot, where Richie noticed a big bloody scrape down the girl’s leg as she sat on the curb, smoking a cigarette—he had plopped down next to her, asked if she had any more, and smoked beside her until the sun started to go down. Then he called his mom and asked if Beverly could spend the night, explaining that he made a new friend and she couldn’t go back to her own house (she had simply shook her head once Richie asked if she wanted to, and that was all he needed). His mom quickly obliged, because bless her heart. 

But do you know the only thing keeping him from having a perfectly normal, ordinary life for a teenage boy? 

It’s pretty obvious. His fairy tale is different. 

While the other handsome princes are finding beautiful wives and ruling their kingdoms, Richie Tozier has never even had a girlfriend before and Derry is far from a kingdom. While the handsome prince is dancing with his princess, love at first sight, Richie Tozier is a gay loser in a stupid christian town where he’s lucky to even get a hook up every once in a while. While the beautiful princess is sliding her perfect little toes into a glass slipper, Richie Tozier is shoving his feet into dirty red converses with sharpie scrawled all over them. 

It’s the way things have been since he was twelve fucking years old and he decided that young Matt LeBlanc was, like, really fucking attractive. Like, so attractive that he made Richie have a fucking crisis and cry himself to sleep out of fear that his parents would hate him. (good thing that his parents honestly didn’t care, and when they sat him down for the ‘sex talk’ at the ripe age of fourteen and informed him that he should use protection for sex with both girls and boys, Richie guessed that they figured it out on their own.)

In a perfect life, Richie doesn’t live in Derry—he lives in Los Angeles, and he’s famous, and he has a perfect lover and his parents give more than a tiny shit about him and assholes like Henry Bowers are nonexistent. 

But real life doesn’t work like that. 

He knows he’ll never be able to come out—at least, not any time soon. It may be the 21st century, but no deal of inclusiveness has ever found its way into Derry. It’s small, christian, and blatantly homophobic (at least, the vast majority is, and if anyone in town weren’t, it would be the teenagers—but even then? It’s the kind of town where he’d probably get jumped or bullied to submission if word ever got out.)

The thing about life is that, no matter how hard Richie can try, he will never get a happily ever after. He knows it for a fact. That’s why he doesn’t believe in fairy tales. 

That is, until the first semester of his junior year of high school. 

How does this happen, you ask? How does one, who’s so against tales of happily ever after, somehow come to believe in them?

Well, it’s because some short-tempered asshole named Eddie Kaspbrak decided to become a knight in shining armor and swept a dumbstruck Richie Tozier off his feet. 

Let’s take it from the top, shall we?

—

“Richard Tozier, you have a Saturday _detention_!”

The pen that had once balanced on Richie’s fingertip falls off, bouncing off of the desk and down to the floor of the chemistry room. From across the classroom, he can practically hear the way that Bev’s head snaps up at the proclamation.

Richie’s jaw drops. Much like that one painting, of the screaming guy, from whoever the hell that dead artist weirdo was. (Rich remembers learning about that guy in seventh grade, and it was the same day that he almost got suspended for rolling down the hallway in a trash can.) As the entire class stares at him, he can feel his face begin to warm in embarrassment—he loves attention, but not in this kind of fucking circumstance. He didn’t even  do anything.

The kid next to him coughs.

“What? Why?” He sputters at the teacher, because he’s ninety-nine percent positive that he wasn’t even being annoying this time. 

The woman, this old, fat, and aggravating boomer named Ms. Hunt, is already slamming a drawer open and pulling out a detention form. Richie gapes at her even harder. “Jeez, I didn’t even _do_ anything this time, Hunt! I was doing my worksheet!”

“You were tapping your feet!” she growls, making a show of coming over to his desk and shoving a gross finger in his face. “You tap your feet, and tap your fingers on the desk, and move around in your chair every five seconds! People are trying to work. If you can’t handle a simple worksheet, then maybe you’re just too _impaired_ to be in my class.”

Richie can’t help the way that his heart drops to his stomach and his unbelieving smile begins to sink at the words—because, well, to any random student who doesn’t know Richie Tozier, the lady is spewing nonsense. But to someone like Beverly, who’s face drops at the same time Richie’s does, the jab was  completely uncalled for. 

So, he sits there, frozen, as he’s handed a pink detention slip. Dated for this Saturday from eight to two, and requiring a parent signature. 

It’s hard to finish his electron configuration worksheet after that. 

—

It’s a shame, really, that he’s in such a sour mood for the rest of his periods until lunch. His English class is usually his funniest one—everyone tolerates his yapping and they practically worship him. Even the teacher, for god’s sake. Sure, that bitch Gretta always tells him to shut up and that he’s annoying, but no one really likes her anyways. 

If Stan notices Richie’s sorrow as he walks through the door, dropping his Jansport backpack on the desk and slumping haphazardly in his chair, he doesn’t comment on it. 

“Alright, everyone, find your seats, and get started on your Fairy Tale projects. I’ll be coming around with your report cards, I need them signed and returned by Monday. Richie, get your head off the desk, and Dustin, get off your damn Nintendo. You have an hour. Go.”

The class starts dissolving into a sea of chatter, like usual, as Mr. Rodriguez begins handing out pieces of paper to everyone in alphabetical order. Instead of taking his head off the desk, Richie only looks to the side, staring up at Stanny with his cheek pressed against the wood. 

“What?” Stan asks. “What’s with the puppy-dog eyes?”

“Did Bevvy text you?” Richie asks, glasses crooked. 

Stan frowns, glancing down at his backpack on his lap. His phone must be in there, then. “Uh... not in the last hour.”

“Did she tell you about how Ms. Hunt is the biggest cunt in all of Derry?”

“What? She give out another ten page packet, or something?”

Richie attempts shaking his head, but it’s kind of hard when his face is pressed down against the desk. He decides that he doesn’tfeel like shaking his head anyways, and he also decides that he doesn’t wanna talk about it. “Nah. She’s just a bitch,” he murmurs, and the conversation goes dead for a few minutes as Stan begins drafting out their project. The boy sneaks a few concerned glances every few seconds, though, so at least Richie knows he cares. 

There’s a finger tapping on Richie’s shoulder before he gets the chance to close his eyes and drift off. Mr. Rodriguez’s expression is tight once he hands Richie his report card. 

He frowns, scrambling to read the page—since it’s the end of the first quarter, all of his classes have been hellish in an effort to get grades in. He hasn’t checked his grades online in a while. 

So of fucking course he has to get a C in Chemistry, because apparently today couldn’t get any shittier. 

—

The cafeteria is loud and stuffy and crowded when Richie gets there. Usually, he manages to get there early enough to snag a chicken sandwich and grab a seat with Stan and Bev before the lunch rush kicks in—with tens of hundreds of teenagers shoving into each other and arguing over the last piece of pizza and a hoard of awkward freshmen Naruto-running around. 

He’s waiting in the line for fried chicken, since he was too late to get a chicken sandwich before they sold out. (He usually has this one recipe that he always makes for him and Beverly; a spicy chicken sandwich with lettuce, relish and boom boom sauce that he gets at the toppings bar—it’s so good that he can practically feel his dick getting hard every time he takes a bite.) 

“Trashmouth Tozier,” some girl grins as she passes by, dabbing him up. Richie spares her a nod and a wink, very unenthusiastically, mind you, but she blushes and begins to sprint over to her friends anyways. 

He feels a sense of pride, for just a quick moment, because it’s not exactly a secret that there are tons of girls in Derry who have the hots for him. He’s above average in the looks department, but according to Stan, his fashion sense is an ‘eyesore’. (Rich likes his style, thank you very much.) No acne, really, six feet tall, lanky yet slightly toned, and funny. Yes, he’s fucking hilarious, and chicks eat that shit up. 

(Too bad you’re repulsed by the thought of vaginas, loser!)

The pride numbs away as none other than Victor fucking Criss steps on his converse shoe, which Richie seriously fucking doubts was an accident. He yelps, his foot crushing under the weight of the asshole, and stumbles into someone behind him. Good thing the girl doesn’t really seem to care. 

“Watch where you’re going, trashmouth,” Victor hisses, a smile on his face, as he turns away to the rest of the cocky Bowers’ gang. 

Richie considers shoving Vic in the back, and almost does so, stepping forward, but decides against it—that would be an incredibly idiotic thing to do, even for Richie. Being jumped by Henry fucking Bowers and his entourage in the middle of the cafeteria would do numbers on his reputation. 

“ _Fucking jackass_ ,” he spits instead, but apparently Patrick Hockstetter has some really fucking superb hearing because he pauses in his tracks. 

He turns around, slowly, moving like a coyote eyeing down its prey. If Richie is a tall ass, then Patrick is a gigantic ass. He’s probably one of the tallest guys in school, with over half a foot on Richie. 

Patrick tilts his head. “You _say_ something?” he growls, thumbs in his pockets as he slouches, lanky step after another until he’s in. Richie’s. Face. He reeks of sewer and desperation. “ _Trashmouth_? You have something to say?”

And in an act of instant betrayal, his mouth decides to come up with a retort faster than his brain can convince him otherwise. “I have something to say to _Dicktor Criss_ , here. Not to  you,  _Cock_ stetter.”

Some teenagers begin to go silent around them, noticing the tension—it’s hard not to when two obnoxiously tall kids are neck and neck, like totem poles in the crowd. People begin to take out their phones, holding them up as if a fight is about to break out. 

Eventually the entire cafeteria goes silent. Richie hopes Beverly and Stan will delete his search history after he’s dead. 

“Why don’t you watch where you put your damn feet, then, Tozier?” Vic says from behind the big one—Belch, he thinks, which is a really fucking stupid name—and points at Richie’s converses. “Not like your, uh, ratty ass _slippers_ are that important.”

“Your mom seemed to like them last night,” Richie says, and the crowd erupts in gasps and quiet ‘ _ooooo’s_. 

He watches, smugly, as the shorter boy turns bright red in what Richie can only determine to be anger or embarrassment. It’s kinda funny, kinda cute. Victor is the dictionary definition of a twink. 

(Shut up, brain! Not the time to be a perv!!)

Trying not to visibly cringe as Patrick licks his lips, Richie keeps his chin up. He knows better than to take his eyes off a predator, after all. 

The tension is thick as butter for a moment—just a moment—until Henry Bowers snaps his fingers, like an owner trying to get the attention of his pet dog. 

“Hockstetter. Down.”

Patrick doesn’t move. “But he looks so fucking _punchable_ —“

“I already told you to stop,” Bowers snarls. “I want food. Let’s fucking go.”

Richie’s breath comes to a halt as administrators shove their way to the front of the crowd, small orange whistles in hand—the fight whistles, which they use whenever there’s a fight that they need to spilt up—and Patrick finally desists. 

“Whatever,” Patrick scoffs, and the Bowers gang walks away. 

Richie decides that he’s not really that hungry anyways. 

—

Going home is probably the most dreadful thing he has to do, today. It’s one of those rare occasions that both his mom and dad are home from work—his dad, Wentworth, is a cynical middle-aged dentist with a salt and pepper beard, who drinks black coffee by the pot, and spends the majority of his nights with a glass of wine and a book. His mother, Maggie, is an overly emotional hair stylist with an unexplained love for designer bags. She’s usually the one who Richie seems to disappoint the most. 

He unlocks the front door, stepping inside and kicking off his shoes. (He doesn’t think they’re that ratty. They just have  _personality_.)

His mom is cooking something in the kitchen, which can only be assumed by the smell of garlic and the sound of a sizzling pan coming from the kitchen. There’s also a huge gust of smoke seeping into the hall, which, duh, is a telltale sign that the woman is burning something again. 

“Mother dearest,” he says, peeking into the kitchen and dropping his school bag on the floor. “I’m home.”

Maggie Tozier stands at the stove. Red apron tied around her slim waist, brown curls thrown up into a perfect updo, and her big red lips twisted together in frustration—or is it concentration? She’s stirring around a pot of something that looks... slightly inedible. They’re probably gonna be ordering takeout tonight, then. 

“Rich,” she says, not turning around, “How was school today?”

“Fine,” he lies. “What are you making?”

“A  mess . We’re getting chinese food. Fuck this.”

Peering over from behind her shoulder, Richie can only watch as she tosses the spatula into the pan, grabbing the handle and carrying it to the trash can. “I heard Stan got his report card today. Show me yours.”

Richie freezes, the lie already on the tip of his tongue. “Oh. I didn’t get mine.”

Maggie gives him an unimpressed look. “ _Really_?”

“Yeah, maybe I’ll get it tomorrow.”

“You take your meds today?”

“Yah.”

She turns back around. “Hm. Well, Stanley’s mother posted it on Facebook. Looks like he got all A’s. Can I expect yours to look the same?”

(Fuck Stan and his poster-child-ness! Fuck him!)

“I guess,” Richie shrugs, leaving the kitchen. 

He sighs, a deep and heavy feeling. There was really no point in lying to her—just delaying the inevitable. Anyways, she was just the trial run, today, because depending on Wentworth’s mood, Richie will either be let off the hook or grounded for a week. 

His father’s office is upstairs, down the hall next to his parents’ room. The dark wooden door is closed, like always, so Richie knocks before making his entrance. 

“Good afternoon, parental figure,” he says, dramatically posing in the doorway. 

Wentworth is sitting at his desk, typing away at his desktop. Delicate glasses are perched on his nose as he looks up at the boy. “Greetings, problem child.”

“Are ’ya busy?”

“No. What do you need?”

Richie closes the door behind him. He takes out the folded report card out of his back pocket, mouth going dry as Wentworth eyes it carefully. “I need a signature.”

His dad holds his hand out. “Give it here, then.”

“Yeah, but the thing is, you need to understand that although your child may be incredibly charming and handsome, he also isn’t perfect. That being said, Ms. Hunt is a huge bitch and is incredibly difficult to please, which coming from me is quite the understatement, so please take that into account before you look at—“

“Give me, Rich,” he sighs, so Richie does. 

He doesn’t even have to look at the grades for long before he looks up at his son, the most unimpressed he’s looked in a while. “Seriously? A C?”

“ _Please_ don’t be mad, father dearest,” Richie says, shrinking into himself. “It was a mere misdoing on the part of nature—besides, Chemistry is really fucking hard, like, really hard. You took Chemistry, right? It was hard when you took it, wasn’t it?”

“Rich, I took Chemistry as a freshman.”

“Did you ace it?”

“No,” Wentworth says, taking a pen out of his drawer and signing it without much preamble. “Not necessarily.”

“So you’re not mad?”

“I’m never mad, Rich, I’m too old for that. But did you try your best?”

“Of course!”

“Then that’s all that matters. Still, I’m not happy about it. This is your first C since middle school, right? How low will your GPA drop?”

“To a 3.5,” Richie says. “Since I got a B in Calculus, too.”

Wentworth pauses, thoughtfully. Looking at the report card, then to a hopeful looking Richie, then to the report card, then back to Richie. 

“Does your mom know yet?” he asks. 

“No. I told her I’m getting it tomorrow.”

“She’ll be upset,” he says. 

“Maybe you could butter her up a bit? Lie for me?” the boy asks, giving his dad the puppy dog eyes. “Please?”

“I will not lie to your mother—“

“ _Please_!” Richie begs. “You can ground me! I’ll even help out at the office all weekend!”

That’s when it hits him. The Saturday detention. 

Fuck. 

“You look like you just shit your pants, Rich, what happened?”

“I’m busy on Saturday,” he says, bracing for impact. 

“Doing what? Meeting with that closeted kid? Because if you’re going to be on a date then I advise against it, you know who his cousin i—“

“ _ Detention .” _

Wentworth freezes. For a moment, he says nothing, only staring down at his mahogany desk with the gaze of a man who’s seen a war, then he slams his head in his hands. 

“Dad, I’m sorry,” Richie says, hands in his pockets. “Hey. Please, come on, I’m _really_ sorry.”

“You promised you wouldn’t get any more Saturday detentions this year. It’s only the first quarter and you’re on your third.”

“This one wasn’t my fault, though!” he insists. “Look, it was Ms. Hunt. I was just—just doing my worksheet in class, but I didn’t notice I was fidgeting and tapping my foot, and she got annoyed and gave me a detention, then...”

The man’s face goes dark. 

“Then what?”

Richie swallows. 

“Then she said that I’m too _dumb_ to be in her class. Whatever than means.”

Suddenly, his father doesn’t seem very angry anymore. Instead, he just looks irritated, but not at Richie. Thank god. 

“Okay,” Wentworth says. “Well, I could call the school, but I doubt they’d do much about it. Honestly, If I were you, just get the detention over with and let me talk to Ms. Hunt. I’ll arrange something. She obviously has it out for you.”

“Thank you, el Padre,” Richie grins. “Thank you _thank you thank you!_ ”

“But I’m telling your mom about the detention. It wouldn’t be fair not to.”

Whatever. It’s a small price to pay, in Richie’s opinion. 

Wentworth stays a bit stiff as his son comes around his desk to wrap him in a bear hug. Richie’s lanky arms engulf his father awkwardly, but it’s nice either way. 

“Love you, father,” Richie grins. 

“Love you, problem child,” Wentworth replies a bit dryly. 

—

Beverly and Stan and him all hop on a group FaceTime call, that night. 

Beverly has to hide in her bathroom with the shower running in the background, during calls. It’s a precaution she has to take to make sure her asshole of a dad doesn’t hear. (Richie can still remember the time in freshman year when Beverly had all her electronics taken away for weeks because she was caught on the phone with a boy.) The boy in question was some football player named Benjamin. Apparently him and Beverly still talk, but neither Stan or him hear much about him. 

“I’m sorry, Rich,” Stan says, his side of the call illuminated by the lamp in the corner of his bedroom. Round glasses rest on the tip of his nose, hair curled and hanging over his eyes. Stan really does remind Richie of his dad. Same delicate nature yet stoic personality. “I didn’t know your mom even had my mom on facebook. She probably expects you to get all A’s, too, now.”

“My mom’s annoying. S’not that big of a deal, Stanny boy, I’m pretty sure my dad is lying for me, anyways.”

Stan looks unconvinced, but they’re interrupted by the sound of Beverly yelping as she drops her hairbrush in the sink. “Fuck!”

“Grip your fucking hairbrush, then, Bev, this is the third time in the past five minutes!”

“Fuck you,” she says, continuing to brush through her long red locks. She grumbles to herself as the brush gets caught on another knot. “Fuck this, I’m just gonna chop off all my hair one day, I swear to god—“

“Rich, why is your dad lying for you?”

“I dunno,” Richie shrugs. “He said that all that mattered is that I tried my best. Then he said that I should just go to the detention and he’ll have a talk with Ms. _Cunt_.”

“Ms.  _Cunt_ !” Beverly snorts. “Perfect!”

“So, yeah. I’m basically off the hook with my dad. My mom is probably gonna be pissed about the detention but if my dad buys her something nice then she’ll probably get over it.”

“Good,” Stan says with a sense of skepticism. “But what the hell happened at lunch?”

From the other side of the screen, Beverly pauses. “Wait. What do you mean?”

“Gretta Keene was talking shit at P.E.” 

“So what? Fuck her—“

“She was saying how Richie stepped on Victor’s foot and said he fucked his mom, and almost got jumped by Henry and Patrick.”

“Wait, you mean the Victor, Henry, and Patrick from the fucking _Bowers gang?!”_

“What other Victor, Henry, and Patrick would I be talking about?!”

“What the _fuck_ , Richard!! What happened?”

“I didn’t step on his foot!” Richie argues before they can even make the assumption. “He stepped on mine!”

“So you said you _fucked his mom?!”_ Beverly hisses. 

“It wasn’t like that!”

“Brain to mouth,” Stan groans. “Brain to mouth, Rich. You could have gotten jumped in the fucking Cafeteria. You could have _died_.”

“Not to mention it would have been _super_ embarrassing,” Beverly says. 

From under his blanket fort, Richie shuffles around, trying to get the blanket to cover his cold feet. A bag of Doritos lays in his lap, but while he moves, crumbs sprinkle all over his lap and onto his pajama pants. He grumbles to himself, and then his glasses fall off his nose. “ _Fuck_!”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Fuck off.”

“Fuck you!”

“There are people trying to sleep, Richard, stop screaming!”

“Slut!” he spits. 

“Trashmouth!” she returns. 

“Carrot top!” Stan says.

“Jew!” 

“Fairy!”

“Pussy!”

“Four eyes!”

“Beaverly!”

“Beanpole!”

“Bird fucker!”

Maggie Tozier bursts through Richie’s bedroom door. He practically falls off the bed, entangled in the blanket as he screeches. “ _Richard Tozier, it’s a school night, why are you on the phone so late?!”_

“We’re doing a project!” he yelps. 

“Then be more quiet!” she scolds, pink robe tied around her waist with her hair in rollers. “Your dad is sleeping!”

“Fine!” he says, just as loud, as the woman leaves. 

Turning back to his phone, Stan and Bev begin erupting in giggles and snickering. “Oh, fuck you guys.”

“You _were_ being loud,” Beverly giggles. 

“Whatever. Whatever, you know what? I’m going to bed.”

“Rich, don’t be feeling some sort of way,” Stan starts, but he cuts himself off once he realizes what time it is. 11:30. “Oh. Hm. Well, fine then.”

“Oh,” Beverly says, grinning. “Is it already time?”

“Bye!” Richie groans, urgently, then hangs up as the laughter of his two best friends becomes louder and louder. He launches out of bed, brushes the Dorito crumbs off his lap and under the rug, and pulls the blanket up to look... somewhat presentable. 

Running over to his dresser, Richie looks into the mirror leaning on the wall and strokes his fingers through his ratty hair—oh, well. That’s the best it’ll look. His black curls are sticking out in all directions, looking more like a nest than anything, but it’s not like he has any time to deep shampoo it or something.

He only has time to put on two sprays of his Abercrombie cologne when there’s a knock at his window. 

Breathe, Tozier. Breathe. It’s just like any other night. Except, instead of jacking off to porn, he’ll be getting off with a living, breathing, hot ass guy. Okay. Breathe. 

Undoing his window latch, Richie huffs a small laugh as the black-jacket clad boy crawls into his room, the cold air seeping inside with him. “Whassup?”

“Hey,” Richie says quietly, heart thudding, as none other than Connor Bowers stands before him—hood concealing his fluffy, blonde curls (much prettier than Richie’s). His lips are pink but slightly chapped, his eyes are blue as always, and his mouth is twisted up in his usual smirk. 

“Hey, hot stuff,” Connor smiles, pulling his hood down and unzipping his jacket, then throwing it on the end of Richie’s bed. His air force 1s are pristine and uncreased—nothing like Richie’s dirty red converses that are sitting at the bottom of his closet. Connor is just, like, perfect. 

“Were you at school today?” Richie asks, because what the fuck else should he say to the boy he’s about to fuck? Is this the time for small talk? Or should they just get down to business? (Ugh, why is he freaking out?! They’ve been doing this for weeks now!) Fingers wrapping around Connor’s wrist, Richie pulls him down to sit on the bed next to him. 

Connor clicks his tongue. “Nope. But I heard what happened.”

For a moment, his heart sinks. Henry has probably told him the negative side of things—probably made Richie sound like a damn _clown_. 

“Do you think I’m a big loser now?” he jokes, anyways. 

“Yeah, totally.” Thankfully, upon seeing the way Richie frowns, Connor retracts his statement quickly. “I’m just kidding, babe. I don’t think you’re a loser.”

There goes that word again—babe. It’s the second time Connor has called him that in the past week of this; sneaking in through Richie’s bedroom window and getting ‘it’ done by midnight. Richie blushes, heat spreading on his cheeks despite the chill of the night, which reminds him that he should probably close the window. 

So, he starts to get up to do just that—but apparently Connor has other plans, because he grabs onto Richie’s waistband before he can walk away, a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

Richie looks down at him, eyebrow raised. “Yes?”

Connor gives him the eyes. Holy Jesus. “Sit down.”

Richie does, instantly; plopping down onto the edge of the bed and grips the sheets, buzzing with a hint of anxiety—at the same time that Connor drops down to the floor, right in front of him. On. To. His. _Knees_. 

“Oh my god,” Richie chokes out, in disbelief, because apparently he has no idea how to keep his thoughts to himself. Connor laughs. 

“Tell me if I suck at this,” the blonde boy says, pulling Richie’s waistband down and shuffling them down his thighs and to his ankles. All that’s left is his briefs—oh, god, he wore briefs today. They barely manage to conceal the tent that his erection has created, and in just the span of two minutes. Holy hell. 

Slowly, Connor begins to pull down the band of Richie’s underwear, too, who can’t help the small mumble that escapes his lips at the pretense of getting a blowjob. He’s only ever given head to Connor before. Barely ever on the receiving end, except for some embarrassingly quick handjobs. 

His dick—god, the poor guy, it’s already leaking at this point—springs free, half hard and craving attention. Connor wraps his hands around it ( _fuck fuck fuck_ that feels good) and just... looks. 

“What?” Richie breathes. Suddenly he feels extremely self conscious. He’s not exactly small, per se, which has been confirmed by Connor himself and by some guy in sophomore year who he fucked in the back of a car for weed. His ‘massive dick’ jokes aren’t exactly... only jokes. 

“I’m thinking, Tozier, god,” Connor says. “Never—Never done it before.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I could blow you.”

He knows it’s a shot in the dark—Connor is way too stubborn to accept defeat so quickly, but it’s not like Richie really minds having a dick in his mouth, so it’s always nice to ask. 

“No, I wanna,” Connor insists, looking away. It’s cute. He looks embarrassed. “Just... tell me. How to start.”

Speechless for a moment, Richie stutters as he decides the best approach. Connor is obviously nervous that he’ll fuck something up, which is a sweet sentiment, really. Was Richie this nervous his first time blowing someone? No—the guy said Richie was a natural when he was done. He wasn’t really that concerned about fucking up. Maybe it was because he didn’t care about that guy’s opinion—but Connor does care about Richie’s. Apparently. 

“Okay,” he breathes. “Well, uhm, usually the first thing I do is tease the tip—“

His words melt into a deep moan when the boy sticks the tip of Richie’s dick onto his 

tongue. Then, he begins to swirl his tongue around it, circling the ridge over and over as Richie practically wrenches in surprise. “ _Guh...”_

Connor stops for a second to look up at him, innocently. “Keep talking. Tell me what to do, stupid.”

He does it again—teases Richie’s tip with his tongue, again, the wetness and the warmth only adding to the sensation. Oh, shit. “O-Okay, man, so... the un-underpart... fuck, dude, _slow down,_ I’m gonna come _so_ quick if you keep doing that—the underpart is the most sensitive, so you can lick that—“

Immediately, Connor does just that. Richie falls back into the bed, desperately grasping for a pillow and shoving it into his face to drown out the noise of his whimpers. 

Connor keeps going, so Richie takes that as his cue to keep talking. “When you—you wanna take it, uhm, deeper, you have to—uh, make your lips cover your teeth. Yeah. Just like _thaaaahhhh, fuck.”_

He takes Richie’s dick in his mouth, hands wrapped around the remaining inches that he can’t fit into his throat. He begins to slowly bob his head up and down, mouth full of hot and wet spit as he sucks and licks and gags around it. Richie swears he can see stars, panting and gasping and fucking praying that his mom isn’t awake to hear it. 

“Keep going,” Richie begs. “Please.”

Connor bobs his head up and down, up and down, up and down for a few minutes—his jaw is probably aching, the poor thing (Richie has been there) and there are tears prickling in the corners of his eyes as he gives some of the best head Richie has ever gotten. (okay... that’s not saying much, because he’s only gotten blown twice, including this time, but still.) The bliss goes on and on and on until, almost concerningly, Connor takes the dick out of his mouth with a wet ‘pop!’, choking in a deep breath and struggling to gasp for air. 

“Are you okay?” Richie asks, urgently, shooting off his back to sit up. “Hey. You don’t have to keep going. Does your jaw hurt? Con, come on, say something.”

“M’fine,” he grumbles, grabbing Richie’s cock again, then puts it back in his mouth— _all of it._ Down to the hilt. Nose touching Richie’s crotch. Rich actually lets out a loud moan, this time, but flinches when he gets a little hint of teeth for a second— it’s okay. It’s Connor’s first time. 

He moves at a steady rhythm. Up and down, up and down, lick the head a bit, then back to up and down. Richie’s mind goes numb and his toes curl on the hardwood floor and the hot, rolling ball in his lower stomach becomes warmer and warmer and _warmer_ , hands gripping at Connor’s hair so hard that he might be pulling some out, saliva dripping down his chin in ecstasy, glasses foggy from his hot breaths. 

He comes, finally, right down the boy’s throat—hot and thick and fucking exhilarating, Connor’s mouth still on his dick as he feels his seed stuffing his mouth. 

They stay like that for a moment—Richie, panting and wheezing and on the verge of completely collapsing off his bed, and Connor’s mouth still on his dick, despite the white semen dripping from the edges of his pink, swollen lips. 

Connor moves first, pulling away. Richie’s softening cock falls from his mouth as he looks the boy dead in the eye and, honest to god, fucking _swallows_ it down in one big gulp. 

—

The next day at school, Mr. Rodriguez notices Richie spacing out and decides to assign him a personal project. To write a fucking story. Not just any story, no—write a _fairy tale._ Just one page long, but it still needs a story. Apparently Richie is lacking in ‘enthusiasm and imagination’ in his writing. 

Richie doesn’t even consider actually doing the assignment. Like he said before, he hates fairy tales with a passion, and he’s sticking to that. 

—


	2. richie goes to a party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Richie stumbles through the crowd, both Connor and Stan under his arms supporting him upright as they navigate their way to the bathroom, a cluster-fuck of voices chatter and chatter and chatter to the point where it sounds like static. He seriously needs a drink.
> 
> As the blood oozing from Richie’s nose leaks into his mouth, the taste of iron makes him sputter. “Ew...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was one of my favorite chapters to write!!! i hope you like it!

—

There was a time once, way back in seventh grade, when Richie Tozier was nothing short of a loser. 

Arguably, he still is—the only things keeping him from being a complete outcast are his looks, his humor, and his charm. The three pillars that hold up his very few ounces of confidence. 

However, all three of these things are almost completely fabrications. He’s not conventionally attractive, he knows that, because his hair may be curly and dark but it’s also greasy and nappy. He may be tall and toned, but he’s also all limbs and kinda lanky. There’s also the fact that his glasses magnify his eyes to an almost strange degree, but his eyes are too sensitive for him to switch out to contacts, and overall he kinda just looks like a bug. No matter how many girls are in his Instagram DMs, he knows he’ll never truly feel comfortable in his own skin—he’ll never have those smooth, soft features like Beverly, or the handsome, boyish features like Stan. 

His humor is nothing extraordinary, either. If Richie’s learned anything over the years, it’s that if you don’t have a natural connection to the ‘in’ crowd, typically because you don’t have anything in common with them, like sports or social skills, you have to force a connection. Using humor was exactly the way he did that when he first started high school and decided he wanted to be more than just ‘that annoying beaver kid’. What you really need to be perceived as funny is confidence, wit, and fast, obnoxious comebacks. That’s how he became Derry’s trashmouth. 

Then, there’s his charm. The Richie Tozier Charm is a skill, really, and it’s got nothing to do with flashing your teeth or winking at women. No—it’s about winning people over. To be charming, you have to get on with a lot of people; even the ones you know you won’t be friends with, and even the ones you really don’t want to associate with at all. If it means saying hello to the new kid in the back of the classroom, Richie’ll do just that. If it means knowing a lot about someone’s interests so you can sway them with your intense knowledge on wrestling moves, then so be it, Richie will read up on those. 

Through his blooming adolescence in both freshman and sophomore year, Richie was able to use all three of these methods to build up his relevance. In doing so, he also brought up the reputations of Beverly and Stan—Beverly, who’d probably be known as nothing but the ‘school slut’ if it weren’t for her fucking freshman fanbase (a group of fourteen year olds, boys and girls alike, who gawk and stare at her as she passes by them in the hallway. It’s mostly based on her beauty, her red hair, and her cute clothes, but what she doesn’t know is that Richie is the one who told them who she was when he saw the kids ogling at her on the first day of school), and Stan, who’s quiet and stoic and kinda uptight but is still in the ranks because he hangs out with Richie (honestly. Stan hates the ‘normie’ crowd, but he puts up with it just to hang out with Richie most of the time—get togethers, dances, parties, you name it. Richie’s the one constantly dragging the boy to functions, anyways). 

But Richie really doesn’t want to sound cocky, or arrogant, as if he’s the one carrying the reputations of both of his friends on his back. That’s not what means (or believes) in the slightest. 

And besides, this story isn’t even about popularity. So that’s that. 

—

Gretta Keene is having a party on Friday night. Sure, she’s a total bitch, she relentlessly bullied Beverly in middle school, and she’ll probably spit in one of their drinks if she has the chance, but only an idiot would turn down the opportunity to go to a legendary Gretta Keene party. 

The thing with the Keene household is that, although it always reeks of scrambled eggs and hairspray, the first floor is fucking massive and the living room has a huge space for dancing—there’s also, like, four guest rooms, each one accustomed with lube and condoms, so they’re the best place to get laid. The only issue that’s really holding back Richie from going is the fact that he’s grounded, for one thing, and he also has a Saturday Detention the morning after the party. (This does not bode well for his habits of getting shitfaced and, consequently, getting hungover.)

“You could always just lie,” Beverly supplies, sitting at the chair of Richie’s vanity as she smears on some pink lipgloss. Her red hair is braided, courtesy of Richie, obviously, and her makeup is pale and pretty. “Say you’re gonna go study with me. Or that Stan’s having another one of those bad nights, and that he needs company from a friend. I lied to my dad when I came here.”

The reason Beverly is getting prettied up in Richie’s room right now is because she’s getting ready for a date. A real life date, with that football player, Ben, at the laser tag arena in downtown Derry. She couldn’t get ready at home—she’s barely allowed to wear more than some mascara and lip gloss to school—because her asshole dad would lose his shit if he found out she was leaving the house looking so dressed up. Let alone, to go on a date. 

Richie pouts. 

“The Stan one seems doable,” he says. “Mags wouldn’t ask any questions, since she loves Stanny so much. Or maybe I could lie and say your dad is being an ass? Oh, wait, no... then they would expect for you to be hanging out here with me.”

“They probably won’t even be home,” Beverly snorts. “They never are.”

“They were this week,” he says. “They’ve been home a lot more. Maybe work is getting slow.”

“Hey, is my phone on your bed?”

Sighing, Richie hands it to her. 

“Thanks.”

“Y’Welcome.”

“Hey, what time is it?”

“Six.”

“Shit!” Beverly exclaims, springing up and scrambling with her makeup bags. A big fluffy coat barely covers her tube top and mini skirt—that’s definitely not an outfit that Alvin Marsh would approve of. “I’m gonna be late.”

“You said 6:30, though, right?” he asks, faking concern. As happy as he is to see his best friend going on a date, he can’t help the feeling that he’s being abandoned. 

“Yeah, but the laser tag place is twenty five minutes away. There might be traffic.”

Placing a fat, lip-glossy kiss on Richie’s forehead, Beverly grabs her things and heads for the door. “Can I come grab my other shit in the morning? Before school? I’ll pick you up. We can get coffee, too.”

“Sure, darlin’,” he says, watching her leave. It kinda stings, kinda doesn’t.

—

It’s one of those rare nights where Connor is busy doing shit with the Bower’s gang and Richie doesn’t really feel like hooking up anyways, so he hangs out at home. Cucumber face masks, black nail polish, and a bowl of Doritos rest on his bed as he lays on his stomach, watching Call Me By Your Name on his laptop. Smoke puffs out of his mouth as he exhales, the cigarette balancing between his fingers. 

The worst part about nights like these is that, without any company or distractions, he’s stuck alone with his thoughts—those loud, over-consuming thoughts that make him squeeze his fist too tight and bite his tongue too hard and wonder about the things that really get to him. His parents, his friends, and his future are the topics that his brain really likes to torment him with. 

And don’t even get him started on love. 

See, the thing about love is that it’s a complicated, complicated word—he obviously loves people. He loves Stan and Beverly. He loves his mom, and when he’s not being an asshole, his dad, and he loves Mr. Rodriguez in that ‘oh my god, you have Mr. R? I love him!’ sort of way. He loves things, too. He loves cigarettes, partying, the smell of the peppermint candle in his room, the bouncy, pretty curls on Stan’s head, and the spaghetti his grandmother used to make. He loves feelings, too, like the numbness of his head when he smokes, the feeling of soft cotton sheets after they’ve been through the wash, the feeling of Connor in his hands and around his waist and inside his mouth—

Connor. 

Connor Bowers is a fucking... a fucking... God, Richie doesn’t even know the word. There isn’t a single word in the english language that can perfectly describe Connor Bowers. He’s witty. Smart. Good at video games. Good fashion sense. Determined. Kinda scary. If Richie knows anything about the Bowers family, especially Henry and the chief, it’s that they’re extremely violent and extremely shady—what if, one day, Richie says something wrong? What if Connor finally snaps?

No. He wouldn’t. Connor Bowers is nothing like Henry Bowers. 

He opens his phone. 

_ trashmouth : hey mamasita call me when ur date is over (ik ur probably getting laid rn so take ur time) luv yaaaaaaaa _

Frowning as he shuts his phone off, Richie wonders if Beverly will even see his message—and, if she does, will she even care enough to answer?

Stan is probably busy, too... he doesn’t like to make last minute plans, especially on school nights, and he honestly finds Richie obnoxious when they’re on the phone without Beverly, so that’s out of the question. 

Richie bites his lip. 

His parents are never home. They always have the excuse that they have to be at work, but honestly, have you ever seen a dentist office open past 9? Or a salon that stays open until midnight on weekdays? Richie sure hasn’t. Of course, there’s always the possibility that they have other things to do as well, but a big part of Richie firmly believes that they’re never home because they choose not to be. 

Maybe it’s because they don’t like each other. Maybe it’s because they don’t like Richie. 

That’s the part that haunts him the most.

Richie is expensive to take care of. First, there’s his adderall medication. Then, his glasses prescription, that he has to replace every few months, because he’s always fucking breaking his glasses. There’s his detentions, his bad jokes that they cannot seem to understand for the lives of them, and the fact that giving birth to Richie almost killed Maggie in the hospital room over 16 years ago. Then there’s the fact that, even though Maggie survived, her uterus was severely damaged and their marriage suffered because of it( Richie was an accident baby, go figure).

He reaches the end of the movie, where Elio finds out that Oliver is getting married to a woman, so he cries for three straight minutes in front of the fireplace. 

Something about Elio speaks to Richie. 

—

Beverly carpools her boys to school the next day, using her dad’s car. They stop at Starbucks and buy three iced coffees, but Stan drinks his black. They laugh and smoke cigarettes (again, Stan is the odd one out, only giving them looks of distaste as he scrolls through his phone) and listen to trashy alternative music. All is good. 

“So, sugar tits, how was date night with Mr. Quarterback?” Richie winks, arms resting on the shoulders of the driver and passenger seat as he leans forward. “Get any action? Blackmail? Free food?”

“For your information, Richie, he’s actually very sweet and handsome and respectful, and even if I did get action, I wouldn’t kiss and tell.”

“Well, did you, though?” Stan asks. 

She breaks eye contact from the road to take a sip of her coffee. “The laser tag arena was dark. There were lots of places to hide.”

“Did you fuck in a laser tag arena?!”

“No!” Beverly defends. “We didn’t, like, _actually_ fuck or anything.”

“Did he come? Did you? What position?”

“Holy shit, Richard, don’t ask her that—“

“I’m just wondering!”

“Don’t answer that, Beverly,” Stan groans. “You don’t have to humor him.”

“Let’s just say that we both left satisfied,” she says. “If you catch my drift.”

“Ugh,” Stan groans, again. 

Richie laughs. He can’t really imagine his best friend getting down and dirty in public, much less on a first date, but it’s kind of funny to think about. Especially with a guy like Ben Hanscom—offensive lineman, but doesn’t really associate with the meaty, asshole normies that make up the football team. He always goes out of the way to be nice to the cheerleaders, too, which is more than any of the other football players do. (it’s particularly a tradition for the varsity team to gangbang the cheer captain; it’s never been confirmed if she has to give consent for them to do it, but Richie’s heard the rumors. It’s safe to say that Ben has never participated, but if he has, then him and Richie are gonna have a problem.)

“What about you, then, Richie?” Beverly snorts. “How are things going with you and _Connor_ ~?”

“Things aren’t _going_ in general,” Richie retorts, blushing. “It’s just... casual hook ups. No biggie.”

“I sure hope it’s no biggie,” Stan says. “I don’t like that you two are hooking up.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It kind of is. If someone finds out about you two, you’re both dead. You do understand that, right?”

Richie can feel himself begin to grow a little annoyed. It’s none of Stan’s business who he decides to fuck or not—and, okay, maybe Stan’s just trying to look out for him, because it’s obvious to all parties that it’s not exactly the smartest nor safest thing in the world to hook up with the cousin of Henry Bowers, but it’s still Richie’s business. Stan’s not his dad. 

“Stan, relax!” Beverly says. “No one will find out. Richie knows what he’s doing.”

“Yeah, Stanny!” Richie says, growing incredibly grateful for Beverly. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Is he nice, at least?”

“So nice. He—He always asks me how my day was, and he listens to me talk about everything, and never does anything I don’t wanna do. He always apologizes whenever he says something that might’ve offended me. He always makes sure we both get off, too, and he has a monster cock, so he’s basically the perfect—“

“T.M.I.,” Stan says. “Too much information. Richie, no one needs to know the dick size of Connor Bowers.”

“Eight inches.”

“Fucking _GOD_!”

“So,” Beverly interrupts, a devilish grin on her face as she makes eye contact with Richie through the rear view mirror how. “How far have you two gone?” 

“He blew me the other night.”

Stan chokes on his coffee. He shakes with coughs, desperately scrambling for a napkin to bring to his mouth as Richie and Bev erupt with laughter. 

“And? How’d he do?”

“Best head I’ve ever received,” Richie brags. 

“I’m done,” Stan says, closing his eyes and sighing. 

—

Richie ends up sneaking out of his bedroom window on Friday night—he totally would’ve asked for permission to go to the party instead, but he hasn’t seen his parents all week and the only assurance he has that they’re still alive is the coffee mugs they leave in the sink. Since Stan is the only one who can be trusted to stay sober enough to make sure everyone gets home safe, he picks Richie and Beverly up in his parents’ car at around 10 p.m. 

Richie wears a red thrifted letterman jacket covered in cool patches, a black v-neck, cuffed black jeans, and not surprisingly, his red converses. It’s his go-to ‘straight guy’ outfit, because he’s not really trying to impress anyone or anything. It’s a high school party, and in Derry, no less. (he’s been to some college parties out of town, before—let’s just say that he was a bit of an attention-drawer. Richie truly had no idea how decently attractive he was until ten different people tried to hit on him in one night.)

“I think the football team will be here tonight,” Beverly grins from the passenger seat, looking giddy.

“Well, remember, Gretta always has at least a few hook-up rooms, in case you and Benny boy wanna sneak off—“

“But use protection,” Stan warns. “For the love of god. And lock the door. That goes for you, too, Richie.”

“What makes you think that I’d hook up with someone tonight?” he gasps, a hand to his chest in mock offense.

“If, by some crazy circumstance, Connor Bowers shows up, I trust you wouldn’t be dumb enough to hook up in a room downstairs, especially close to the dance floor, since people would be able to see you two go in together and leave together. Even if you two left the room at different times, who’s to say someone won’t see it anyways and tell everyone they know? And, also, Connor Bowers has a pretty big body count with lots of girls, apparently, so you never know if he has something you can catch—“

“Okay, Mom,” Richie groans. “I promise, I won’t catch an STD from the pretty boy. And I’ll lock the door. Unless you wanna join in, of course, because I wouldn’t mind.”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Beverly says for Stan. 

—

Since the entire football team shows up to Gretta Keene’s party, it’s only natural that the house is already a wreck as the sea of drunk teenagers spread mayhem—Beverly lights up as she sees a certain someone standing in the front yard, near a keg stand. 

Richie climbs out of the vehicle through the window, Stan shooting him a look of distaste as they all approach the house. Colorful lights pour out from the windows, cars litter the street, and obnoxiously loud music blares from inside. It’s a pretty big party if Richie’s ever seen one. 

“There’s Ben!” Beverly sings, prancing through the grass and towards the pack of jocks. “Ben Ben Ben!”

“You gonna introduce yourself to him?” Stan asks, turning to Richie. 

He shrugs. “Eh... you can, but there’s some booze calling my name...”

Stan nods. “Call me when you’re ready to leave,” he says, heading over to where Beverly is jumping into Ben’s arms after locking the car door with the press of a button on his keys. 

Heading inside, Richie can immediately spot a few cheerleaders (in their uniforms, too—fuck why are those skirts so damn short) fucking around in the living room, attempting some sort of tiktok dance and failing miserably as their drunk bodies struggle to stay coordinated. There’s one male cheerleader, too, which is somewhat of a rarity for high schools (he’s also seriously nice eye-candy.)

Cheerleaders, man. 

Gretta Keene swoops by him, kicking a bunch of red solo cups into a pile and steaming with anger—Richie watches, amused, as Gretta begins to screech at a few freshmen climbing on top of the refrigerator. “Hey! Hey, fuckface, get your ass down!”

“Shut it, whore!”

“THAT FUCKING TEARS IT!” she screams, launching into the kitchen and swatting at them with a broom. 

Richie heads over to a cooler over in the corner. A skinny guy in a baseball tee is handing out drinks, and he seems to be at least a little sober—Richie thinks he’s seen him around before. Doesn’t he have a speech impediment or something?

“H-h-hey, Trashmouth,” the guy says. “You want a beer?”

That answers his question. Stutter. “You got a Mike’s?” Richie asks, dabbing him up. “Gonna keep it light for now, I’ve got detention in the morning.”

“Risky. I like it,” stutter boy says, handing him a bottle. “I’ll c-c-ca-catch ya later.”

“See ya, man.”

—

At least an hour passes before Richie sees anyone he’s familiar with—in the middle of the dance floor, a girl with fiery red hair that reminds him of Beverly dances alone, her colorful jumper making her stand out in the crowd. Richie shoves his way towards her, giving off his award-winning grin as she recognizes him. 

“Richie!” Max says, hugging him. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight!”

Max Mayfield is a badass skate-boarding sophomore that shares sixth period Spanish with Richie. The class is full of introverted weird kids, so the two of them are the only ones who keep up the intrigue by fucking around with the teacher and cracking jokes. She’d probably be one of Richie’s close friends if it weren’t for the fact that she already has a friend group of her own.

“Well, I wouldn’t miss the opportunity for free drinks, duh,” he says, looking around. “Where’s your boyfriend? Lucas, right?”

Max rolls her eyes. “Don’t even get me started on him.”

“Ooh, drama?”

“Me and that girl, El—do you know El?” Richie nods. “Well, me and her caught Lucas and Mike talking about how ‘fine’ Beverly Marsh is, and how—ugh. Never mind. Did you do the Spanish homework?”

“I’ll send you the answers.”

“Oh, thank fuck. I was about to physically combust. I can’t believe we’ve been in the class for two months and I still don’t know the difference between ‘nosotros’ and ‘vosotros.’ Besides, I...”

She stops. Richie gives her a confused look. 

“Okay, don’t turn around, but there’s a guy behind you that’s giving you some serious sex eyes. Leaning against the wall. 10 o’clock.”

Richie turns his head, slightly, and through the corner of his eye he spots a familiar head of blonde curls standing away from the dance floor. He smirks. 

“Hm,” he says, innocently. “Better go see what he wants.”

“Alright. I’ll see you on Monday, aye, Trashmouth?” she grins, patting his arm before walking away. 

Richie tries to make as little of a show as possible as he worms his way out, almost getting elbowed in the dick by a drunk girl in the process. Go figure, Connor Bowers waits for him from against the wall, hands in his pockets as he smirks. 

Richie can’t help the warm feeling that spreads across his cheeks. “Hey, stranger.”

“Hey,” Connor says, feigning casualness. He looks around. “You come here often?”

“Maybe I should if you do,” he breathes, feeling pretty bold, but the music is so loud and everyone is so busy partying and making out that he doubts anyone will care enough to listen in. 

Connor snorts. 

“So, have you heard about the infamous hook up rooms? Upstairs?”

“Well now I have, and I’m intrigued. Care to show me one?”

Fucking score. 

—

They slip into a room upstairs while no one is looking—it’s one of the few rooms without a ‘DO NOT FUCKING ENTER’ sign taped onto the door, complete with a box of condoms accompanying a bottle of unflavored lube on the nightstand, but he doubts they’ll need those tonight. Before Richie can even fully close the door behind them, Connor slams it shut himself, pulling Richie to turn around and pinning him to the door. 

Richie grunts as his back is shoved against the door, surprising him, and feels Connor’s warm hands running up and down his stomach from under Richie’s shirt. 

“God, I fucking needed this...” Connor sighs, kissing the boy’s neck. “Needed this so bad.”

“I’m gonna take that as a compliment, so thank you,” Richie mumbles, hands tangling through his own hair. “I am _so_ not drunk enough for my liking...”

“I’ll get ya a drink later,” Connor says, then starts unbuckling Richie’s belt—holy fucking— “Also, I’m not gonna lie, I think sucking dick may be my favorite thing in the world now... or maybe it’s just your dick. I’ve been wanting it in my mouth since Tuesday night.”

Richie stares, in shock, at Connor’s head as he sinks to his knees... for some odd reason, he feels a sense of nerves, and forces the blonde’s head up by pulling his hair, meeting him with a kiss. 

Richie can’t remember the last time he’s made out with someone like this—all hot, heavy, and wet, full of craving and fucking neediness. They start peeling off their layers of clothes without breaking contact from their mouths. Richie peels off his jacket, then helps Connor tear off his long-sleeve shirt. Before the shorter boy can sink back down to his knees and blow him right next to the door, Richie breaks away, breaths hot and heavy as Connor pouts in confusion. “Uhm—bed. Come on, bed. Now.”

“I want your dick in my mouth, though,” Connor groans. 

“If we fuck on the bed, you can blow me and I’ll blow you, and then you can have five minutes where you can do whatever you want to me or vice versa.”

Apparently that’s all the reasoning he needs. 

Before Richie can even blink, both of them are on the bed, Connor on top of him in a straddle as he rips off his undershirt. Richie pulls of his black v-neck, too, throwing it onto the floor as Connor litters kisses down his bare neck and chest—then, to his abdomen, then to his belt. 

They’ve never been this intimate before. They’ve never cling onto each other like this, never made out, never even kissed. It’s slightly terrifying, because it’s kinda like they’re taking things to the ‘next level’, per se, which Richie has no idea is something that fuck buddies do. 

(Unless, of course, that means they’re becoming more than just fuck buddies...)

No. No. They can’t and will never be more than this—they’ll never be more than horny closet cases that get off on each other, like what they’re doing now. They’ll never do more than make out in a non-romantic way, like they just were, and Connor will never unbuckle Richie’s belt for anything more than the sole purpose of getting him off, just like he is right now. 

Richie grabs a pillow from beside him, shoving it over his face to muffle the noise as Connor takes his dick in his hot, wet mouth. It feels the same as Tuesday night, sort of, yet not at all. The first time was simply for experimentation. Connor was still nervous and Richie was still hesitant—nothing like the fast, needy, desperation of now. 

As Connor takes the head of Richie’s cock into the back of his mouth, deepthroating him, he digs his fingers into Richie’s hips; probably hard enough to bruise. The world melts away from Richie’s grasp; escaping his fingertips as he claws and grapples the bedsheets in a drawn out moan. 

It doesn’t take long before Connor’s mouth fills with hot come. As Richie climaxes, he impulsively laces his fingers through the blonde’s hair, forcing Connor’s mouth to stay on his dick as he unloads in his throat. Connor gags and tears prickle in his eyes as he’s pretty much locked on Richie’s dick, but it’s just so damn hot that he can’t help it. 

Guilt instantly rips through Richie, however, as he watches Connor cough, grabbing at his throat and struggling for air. Richie springs out of bed. 

“Oh, God, Connor,” he gasps, dropping down to where the boy rests on his knees on the floor. His mouth drips with come. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, it’s just that you felt so good and I wanted you to—fuck. Are you okay?”

Richie’s hands cup Connor’s face. Connor still doesn’t answer—deeply breathing, in and out, in and out, in and out. 

“Yeah,” he finally answers. “We’re totally doing that again sometime.”

Relief washes over the taller boy like a wave. He sorta chuckles to himself, contemplating just how insane this guy must be to like being choked on a dick (for his second time giving head, no less), and wondering how he got to this point. 

Despite both of them beginning to laugh, a venomous, echoing pit begins to form at the bottom of Richie’s stomach... he stares at Connor, right into his blue eyes, at his chest that heaves up and down with laughter. A horrifying feeling settles in his own chest; worse than the feeling he had when Ms. Cunt have him that detention. 

Oh my God. He’s starting to fall in love. 

No. 

No, no way—there’s no way he’s falling in love with Connor fucking Bowers. The universe may be cruel, but it would never be that cruel; to set Richie up for heartbreak, for humiliation, for a possible beating if word got out—actually, worse. The Bowers Gang would murder him and leave his body mangled and bleeding out in the sewers, and honestly, Richie’s not so sure that’s a sacrifice he’d make for love. 

(But just look at this kid, Rich. You think he’s soooooo fine! You just wanna kiss him and hug him and hold his hand all night long, huh, lover boy?!)

No! Wanting to fuck someone isn’t the same thing as wanting to be in a relationship with them! No, Richie, No! It’s just the heat of the moment talking!

“Thanks, Rich,” Connor says, leaning in to kiss Richie’s neck. He doesn’t really have much time nor mental capability to dwell on it, though, because something much more interesting happens next. 

One might say that, due to the bedroom door opening in such an abrupt manner, Connor Bowers was so caught off guard that he accidentally hit Richie as he jumped. Maybe, just maybe, he was so caught off guard that he punched Richie in the face with the purpose of coming up with an excuse as to why they were bundled so closely together (and it would have been a good one, too; a fight would explain why they both looked so sweaty.)

All Richie knows is this: one second, he’s got his arms wrapped around Connor’s waist in adoration, and the next, a fist meets his nose so hard that he sees stars. 

—

“Holy shit! What happened to Tozier?!”

“Woah, is he bleeding?”

“Who hit him?”

“Hey Bowers, what happened?!”

As Richie stumbles through the crowd, both Connor and Stan under his arms supporting him upright as they navigate their way to the bathroom, a cluster-fuck of voices chatter and chatter and chatter to the point where it sounds like static. He seriously needs a drink.

As the blood oozing from Richie’s nose leaks into his mouth, the taste of iron makes him sputter. “Ew...”

“Hey, hey, Rich, stay awake.”

Once he opens his eyes, he realizes he’s finally in a bathroom, hallelujah— “Everybody get out!!” Stan roars, helping Connor set Richie down to sit on the closed toilet seat and shoving away the teenagers standing at the doorway in curiosity. “MOVE! _GET THE FUCK OUT!_ ”

“Stanny, m’fine,” Richie slurs as Connor shoves some toilet paper to his bleeding nose for him. “ _Stanny!!_ Calm down, m’okay, ‘tis but a scratch—“

“Shut up, Richie, you’re not okay. Don’t look in the mirror, either, I know you faint when you see blood.”

“Fuck, Rich, I’m sorry,” Connor says, sighing, cradling Richie’s limp face in his hands. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Yeah, well, you did,” Stan sneers, shoving his way in front of Richie and getting on his knees to examine the brunette’s pale face. “You do realize that Richie faints really easily when he bleeds? Even a fucking scrape on his knee will make him go unconscious. I guess you’re no smarter than you look.”

“Wow,” Connor scoffs at his bluntness. “And you are?”

“Stanley Uris,” he says, shooting Connor a dangerous glare. “And you must be the infamous one night stand that’s gone on for several nights too long. You also just punched my best friend in the face.”

“Connor,” he replies, holding out a stiff, threatening hand to shake. “Connor _Bowers_.”

Stan is too polite to ignore it. He promptly shakes his hand, but doesn’t make eye contact, instead in favor of looking a confused Richie Tozier in the eye. “Oh, trust me. I know.”

“Sorry, Stan,” Richie murmurs.

“You two both should have been more careful,” Stan scolds, rolling out some more toilet paper from the stand and holding it to Richie’s face. “You should have locked the goddamn door. If it hadn’t been me who opened it while trying to look for a restroom, _anyone_ could have seen you all—do what you were doing.”

“We were just _kissing_.”

“Both of you guys’ hair suggests otherwise. Plus, you both have hickeys out on display for all of fucking Derry to see.”

Looking up, Richie can only look at Connor’s head of messy, disarray curls. Total sex hair. Then, he looks down at the boy’s wrinkled shirt (they had both scrambled to throw their clothes on in a panic once Stan had burst in, yelling at them, before noticing the State of Connor’s upward fist and Richie’s bloody nose), neck exposed and covered with tiny purple bruises. Okay, Stanley has a point. 

“It’s not broken, is it?” Connor asks, looking mortified. 

“Nope. Just bleeding. If he’s unlucky, maybe a bruise. Not that I’m a doctor or anything, just assuming.”

“Thanks, dude,” Connor murmurs, despite his obvious annoyance. Richie really wishes they’d stop bickering—he doesn’t want his love interest and his best friend to hate each other. “For, uh, looking out for him, I mean.”

“I’ve been looking out for Richie since we were eight. Nothing’s changed.”

Richie knows it’s true. 

Someone knocks on the bathroom door. Connor freezes. 

“Open it,” Stan waves. “It’s not like anyone knows.”

As soon as Connor unlocks it, Beverly Marsh bursts into the bathroom with Ben in tow, hitting the blonde with the door in the process. She closes the door behind them and locks it. A ziplock bag full of ice rests in her hand. 

“Is he okay?” she asks, taking in the sight of the bloody toilet paper all over the floor before kneeling to be next to Stan in front of Richie. “Is it broken?”

“No, I don’t think... you brought ice? Here, let him ice it.”

“M’fine!” Richie complains as they shove even more shit on his face—he doesn’t need ice! He needs Connor!

“No! Ice!”

“It’s cold!”

“Too bad!”

“Beverly, hold him! _Hold him down!”_

“I don’t need ice! I need _Connor_ —“

“Afterwards, Richard!”

“He hasn’t gotten off yet! It’s not fair!”

“ _STOP SQUIRMING!!”_

“‘Sup,” Ben waves at Connor, awkwardly, as they stand mere inches apart in the cramped bathroom. 

“Hey,” Connor mumbles, crossing his arms. 

—

Stanley tucks him into bed, that night. It’s well past midnight once they get to Richie’s house, and Beverly had caught a ride home with Ben before kissing both of her boys goodbye on the cheek. Connor had disappeared by the time Richie was ready to leave the party. Shame. He totally would’ve blown him and finished the job, even with a semi-injured nose. 

Stan helps him kick off his shoes and pulls the jacket off Richie’s shoulders, the moonlight illuminating the taller boy’s bedroom through the window. Stan pushes him to lay back in the bed. 

“Thanks, Stanny,” Richie murmurs. 

“It’s whatever, Rich,” Stan replies dryly. “Just... get to bed, and be sure to get to detention on time in the morning, alright?”

For a moment, Richie stays silent, staring at his best friend’s pretty jawline and fluffy hair—he wonders why Stan hasn’t found a girlfriend (or boyfriend, Richie isn’t exactly one to judge) yet. He’s a handsome guy. He’s respectful, logical, responsible, and caring, even if he doesn’t like to show it. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. I will. Hey, Stan?”

“Yes, Rich?”

“Do you hate Connor?”

Richie really, really, really hopes that Stan doesn’t. It’ll make things so much more complicated. Richie would have to hide his hookup buddy from his best friend, which of course isn’t something he wants to do, but it’s not like he has any other options. Sure, Connor may just be a way to get off now, but what if one day it’s something more?

There’s a brief pause before he responds. He sounds hesitant. “No,” Stan says. “I don’t hate Connor.”

“But you were being mean to him.”

“Because he hit you.”

“Not on purpose, though. It was an accident... a total accident.”

“I know, Rich,” Stan sighs. “I just don’t think you two are the best for each other.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You ‘mplied it,” Richie mutters, spitefully. “Connor makes me happy. I like him a lot.”

He doesn’t miss the way that Stan grimaces before answering. “Please go to bed.”

“Not until you tell me what you think of him, Stan the man.”

Sitting at the edge of the bed, Stanley hides his face in his hands, looking either tired or annoyed—Richie can’t tell. He never knows what Stan is thinking. 

“Richie,” Stan says, slowly. “I don’t... how are you doing? Like, aside from right now, with your nose and shit. Are you a happy person?”

Richie gives him a confused glance. “I dunno. Why?”

“You used to be such a jokester. You always seemed happy, and go-lucky, and desperate to be around me and Beverly...”

“I think I ate glass earlier.”

“You’re drunk. Or still drowsy from the blood loss. Either one would explain it.”

“But—You know I’m okay, right, Stan?” Richie says, quietly, tugging at the boy’s sleeve. “Like, some days are better than others, and there are some days where I’m just over it, but I’m not, like... depressed or anything. I’m just not really thriving right now. We all have those moments.”

And it’s true. 

Richie knows he isn’t his usual self. He’s not the infamous trashmouth anymore. Maybe he’s just tired, or maybe he’s just not that funny anymore, but all he knows is that the school’s trashmouth died at the end of sophomore year, just like his optimism. The optimistic hope that, one day, he’d be able to kiss a boy by his locker without consequences, that’d he’d have parents who love each other, that he’d have everything he ever wanted and more. 

“Yeah, I guess you’re just... fine,” Stan says. “I guess you’re just maturing. Trashmouth Tozier always has been a little childish.”

“Why don’t you like Connor?”

“I just think it’s irresponsible on both of your parts. _You’re_ at risk. _He’s_ at risk. The company he keeps isn’t exactly safe, either—“

“It’s not his fault he’s related to Henry Bowers,” Richie retorts. “Just like how it’s not Bevvy’s fault her dad is an asshole... you’re not the sum of your parts, that’s what you always say...”

“Go to sleep, Rich,” Stan says, sternly, so he finally listens for once. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesus christ richie


	3. richie goes to detention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walking into the empty school is like walking into Richie’s home and finding his parents acting like an actual married couple—it’s completely unnatural and somewhat surrealistic. Sure, the smell is the same, the floors are still sticky and gross, and the hallways are still lined with the same ugly posters as always, but the atmosphere doesn’t work the same way—there’s no hot guys to stare at or teachers to snark at. It’s like walking through the empty battlefield of an apocalypse.

—

Richie wakes up in the middle of the night to a phone call. His head is pounding so hard that he has to focus really hard to even make out the contact name, but when he does, he springs out of bed in an instant and almost drops his phone while he answers. 

“U-Uh, hey! Connor!”

“Hey, Richie,” the voice on the other line says, sounding sheepish. “Uhm... are you too busy to talk? I know it’s late.”

“No, you’re good, dude. What, uh, what do you need? Er...”

“It’s nothing, really,” Connor murmurs. “I’m just. Wondering. That weird guy, Stan... he’s not gonna... tell anyone, is he?”

Richie blinks. “Uh—No! No, Stan would never.”

“Or that girl? Or her boyfriend?”

“Beverly definitely wouldn’t. I don’t think Ben even knew what was going on, so don’t worry about him either.”

“Oh... okay.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry, dude. Bye.”

“Wait—“

The call ends, abruptly, but Richie is too exhausted to be as dumbfounded as he probably should be. 

—

The following Saturday, instead of sleeping in and allowing the sunlight peering through the window to wake him up, Richie Tozier is very rudely awakened to the sound of his phone alarm. At first, having no idea why, Richie groans and slaps his phone to turn it off. Then he thinks, ‘what the fuck, it’s saturday,’ to which his mildly hungover brain says, ‘oh fuck, it’s saturday.’

He gets downstairs at 7:17 AM after not putting much effort into his appearance—some old marching band t-shirt from freshman year and a pair of sweats—to the startling sight of Maggie sitting at the kitchen counter with a glass of wine in her hand. 

He’s immediately struck with a sense of child-like fear. His mom never drinks in the morning. Maybe after work to unwind after a long, stressful day—those happen a lot, at the hair salon. Lots of employee drama and unsatisfied Karens. 

“Mother dearest, it’s so early, why are you drinking wine?”

But how late was it when Stan dragged Richie upstairs? Maybe half-past midnight? Wouldn’t Stan have seen his mother sitting at the counter, or wouldn’t Maggie have seen Stan and Richie? How late was it when she got home?

Her head is face down on the counter; her curly hair is knotted and her black mascara is smudged onto the white marble. Upon further inspection, she’s drooling—okay. She’s just asleep. She probably fell asleep late last night while drinking. Okay. 

“Mother,” he says, sternly, clicking his tongue, “You know it’s bad to not take your contacts out before bed.”

Surprisingly, she doesn’t reply. 

Slowly reaching under her and pulling his mother over his shoulder, Richie sighs, but at least she’s not awake to see him leave for detention. She probably has enough things to worry about. He takes her body to the couch and lays her out, horizontally, before covering her with a throw blanket and placing a fat smooch on her forehead. “Mwah.”

Heading to the kitchen, he prepares two glasses of cold water and retrieves four pain relievers from the medicine cabinet. Judging by the empty wine bottle that Richie is positive was full just two days ago, Maggie has probably been drinking for a bigger purpose than to just get tipsy. She’ll probably wake up with a killer headache, and well, Richie has never been one to not do the right thing. 

Good. Now that that’s settled, he can finally get to hell on Earth—school. 

—

Walking into the empty school is like walking into Richie’s home and finding his parents acting like an actual married couple—it’s completely unnatural and somewhat surrealistic. Sure, the smell is the same, the floors are still sticky and gross, and the hallways are still lined with the same ugly posters as always, but the atmosphere doesn’t work the same way—there’s no hot guys to stare at or teachers to snark at. It’s like walking through the empty battlefield of an apocalypse. 

He’s had Saturday detentions before—he knows the damn drill. Go through the office, receive a dirty look from the administrator lady as she finds his name on the detention list, walk to the library, and wait until 8:00 hits and the old faculty guy begins his lecture. Very Breakfast Club esque, really. 

Donut boxes under his arm (he took a quick stop at Dunkin’ Donuts to get some grub, but he decided that the best way into fellow teenagers’ hearts is food, and what better way to make friends than in detention?), a very slump looking Richie Tozier barges through the door of the library without an ounce of shame in his game. Three teenagers look up at him, scowling, then look back down at their phones. Richie doesn’t recognize any of them well enough to call his acquaintances. There’s some dark skinned guy that’s on the wrestling team (Is his name... Michael? Or Mike? Richie can’t remember), Ben from the football team, and that skinny white boy that stutters a lot (oh, he was at the party last night, too). 

The three of them are all sitting at a table together. They whisper to each other, almost looking joyous. Richie doesn’t know anyone other than himself who’s insane enough to be happy while at a Saturday detention, but hey, whatever. He plops his ass at a desk alone and scrolls on Instagram for a while. 

That is, until the faculty guy comes in. 

His name is Mr. Grey. He’s a middle-aged white guy with silver hair that’s starting to bald, with piercing cheekbones and a bit of a big forehead—poor guy. But Richie’s sympathy for the man quickly dissolves once he starts to talk. 

“Well, well, well, children,” he almost spits, like the word ‘children’ disgusts him, as he begins to walk around the room with his hands behind his back. 

Richie doesn’t move. Doesn’t make an obvious show of respect, like sitting up straight in his chair or putting his phone away. He doesn’t care enough—doesn’t like him enough. 

“You all know why you’re here,” Mr. Grey snarls, posture straight and chin up. Sheesh. “If you’re in this room, it means you did something wrong. Perhaps something very, _very_ wrong.” 

There’s a brief pause in the room. All eyes fall on the table that Richie is sitting at, legs propped up in the chair across from him. The air is thick, but not that of tension—no. 

It’s of Mr. Grey eyeing Richie’s boxes of glazed fucking donuts. 

“Food is not allowed in detention, Mr Tozier,” he spits. “You should know this by now.”

“I brought enough for everyone to share, though,” Richie retorts. 

“This is detention. Not the fucking brady bunch.” He snaps, pointing at the garbage can. “Now.”

“No,” Richie says. “Ya want one?”

The old man looks venomous. 

“Are you mocking me, Tozier?”

“I’m asking if you want a donut.” He turns around to the group of three boys. “You all want donuts?”

“Sure,” the stuttering boy says instantly, not looking sheepish in the slightest. Ben shoots the boy a death glare. Mike seems amused. 

As Richie begins to grab a box, Mr. Grey slams his hands on the desk. “No! No donuts for anyone!”

“What if I told you it’s my lunch?” Richie grins. 

“You say one more thing and you’re getting anoth—“

The door to the library opens, quietly, but the ‘click’ of the push door is still disruptive to the quarrel as Mr. Grey turns around; and Richie can only fathom that maybe it’s for the best. 

“Hey, Trashmouth,” the Mike guy hisses from behind him while Mr. Grey is distracted. “You’re crazy.”

“Thanks,” he hisses back. 

“You’re late,” Mr. Grey says, sternly, to someone—Richie can’t see him from where he’s sitting. A bookcase stands in the way of his table and the library door. 

“I know,” a voice says. Masculine but high, and also kinda silvery (‘silvery’ means to be light and pleasant—Richie learned that in english class last year, and the only reason he remembers it is because he got it wrong on the vocabulary test that he would have totally aced if it weren’t for him not remembering the difference between ‘quiet and kind’ versus ‘light and pleasant.’ Total bullshit). “Sorry. Flat tire.”

“Do you have a note?”

“No,” the voice says, sounding sarcastic, “Because you get notes when you’re late to class. This isn’t class. What, you wanna call my mom and tell her to specially make you one?”

Mr. Grey frowns. 

“No,” he says as the boy finally emerges from behind the bookcase, “That won’t be necessary. Have a seat.”

“Great,” the boy says, just as Richie looks up. 

He’s short. He’s got chocolate colored hair that curls at the ends, with tanned skin that’s dotted with freckles, and a Derry Cheerleading warm-up jacket that’s much too big on his small frame. His face is twisted up in a snarl, blowing a bubble with his gum. Okay. He definitely isn’t the type of guy Richie was expecting (nor is he the type of guy that Richie’s ever seen on the cheer team; none of the loud, bubbly, feminine characteristics of the usual cheerleaders, especially a guy one), but hey, he’s not exactly complaining. The kid isn’t exactly a sight for sore eyes—on the contrary, he’s some pretty nice eye candy. (Shit. Richie thinks he saw him at the party last night, too, standing amongst the group of cheerleaders failing at doing the renegade, looking bored.)

Just as hot stuff rounds Richie’s table to sit with stutter boy, Ben, and wrestling guy, Mr. Grey stops him. 

“What?” hot stuff groans. “I’m trying to sit, just like you said.”

“Not next to your friends,” the old man says. “Sit with someone else. In fact, I might as well punish you for coming in late. Why don’t you sit next to Trashmouth?”

“His name is Richie, actually,” Ben says. 

A part of Richie grows flattered that Ben would defend him in such a way. He obviously doesn’t care that people call him Trashmouth, but the sentiment is still there. 

“I call him whatever I want, Hanscom. Problem?”

Ben is silent for a moment. He’s probably used the having to suck up to authority figures, like how a player speaks to a demeaning coach. “No, sir.”

“Why do I have to sit next to Tozier?” hot stuff retorts, fuming. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Hey, I’m right here!” Richie gasps, offended. 

“He’ll just annoy me! I’ll be quiet if I sit next to Bill and Ben and Mike.”

“Sit. Down.”

“Eat my shorts!” hot stuff grunts, but finally obliges, bag hitting the desk with a thud as he sits down next to Richie. 

It’s kinda cute. 

“Everyone, phones in the bin. Get ready for the most boring Saturday of your pathetic little lives.”

—

Richie doesn’t put his phone in the bin. He gets up, pretends to, and sticks it in his pocket while Grey is turned away. Then the man leaves and Richie pulls it out, shamelessly, and scrolls through Twitter. 

“He’s gonna come back and see you with a phone, dipshit,” Hot stuff says, scoffing. 

“I’m sorry,” Richie mumbles sarcastically, “I thought I was too annoying to talk to.”

Hot stuff grimaces, then turns around in his seat to face the three boys (Mike, Ben, Bill, that’s what their names are). “Guys. How long are we gonna be here?”

“Like, six hours, man,” Mike says quietly. “Also, stop talking so loud, Grey can probably hear us from the hallway.”

“We shouldn’t even be here,” the boys says, angrily. “It’s not our fault the bathroom flooded, all we did was flush spaghetti.”

“I h-h-hope this doesn’t go on my record,” Bill sighs.

“Detentions don’t go on your record,” Richie cuts in, turning around a little. “Referrals don’t, either, just suspensions and expulsion. At least, that’s how it works in Derry.”

The four boys blink at him owlishly. Fuck. Maybe they think it was rude for him to be listening in. (It’s not his fault. They’re talking right next to him, after all!)

“Oh, thanks,” one of them says, introducing himself effortlessly. “I’m Mike, by the way.”

“I know, I think I’ve seen you around the halls. Wrestling team, right? I went to the tournament last week, your program was so fucking good. Especially you were against that big guy and you turned him heel, and you completely dodged his snap takedown. Crazy shit.”

Mike gapes, mouth on the floor as he stares at Richie in bewilderment. “Woah, man, how do you know so much about wrestling? Do you come to the matches often?”

“Not as much as I should,” Richie shrugs. “But, hey, maybe I will, now that I know who to be cheering for.”

Mike grins. Seems like he’s already been won over by the Trashmouth Tozier charm. 

Ben introduces himself, as well, looking a bit sheepish. “Hey, your name is Richie Tozier, right? Bev’s friend? I was in the bathroom last night, when you had that bloody nose? I wouldn’t expect you to remember it, you were pretty out of it.”

“How could I forget, Benny boy?” Richie grins, holding out his hand. “Richie Tozier, nice to officially meetcha!”

Ben shakes his hand, smiling. Wow, he really is as cute as Beverly makes him seem.

“Beverly must care about you a lot,” Ben says. “Oh yeah, I forgot to ask. Why were you bleeding in the first place? People were saying it was a fight with Connor Bowers—“

“Wait, Connor Bowers?!” hot stuff gasps. (Yowza, his lips are pretty.) “Is that why your nose looks like that?”

“Wow, are you calling my nose ugly? Not everyone can have a cute little button nose like you, shorty.”

“Not that, dumbass, I meant if that’s why it’s bruised.”

“Yeah, I heard it was Bowers, too!” Bill says. “People were s-suh-saying that h-he was ca-c-ca-carrying you downstairs with—with that guy, Stan, and he was in the b-bathroom with you too.”

Richie’s stomach drops. Do they know? Could Ben be catching on? He was in the bathroom with them, after all, and it’s not like they looked like they were fighting. Shit—Lie! Lie! Lie!

“Oh, the ol’ chap and I got into a little brawl upstairs,” Richie says, improvising. “No biggie. Just a little argument.”

“About what?” Mike asks. “You steal his girl or something?”

He pauses. It’s a good excuse—it would explain why Connor punched him, and it would only drive the point home that the both of them are most definitely straight andare, in no way, hooking up. “Uh... something like that, yeah. I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.”

Hot stuff looks skeptical. “And all you got away with was a bloody nose? I mean, it looks a little bruised, but that’s it? It’s Connor fucking Bowers.”

“Me and him were already on good terms,” Richie shrugs. “The chick was a thot anyways, and they weren’t really mutually exclusive, so...” He motions to the boxes of donuts on the table, an offering. A way to change the subject. 

Ben immediately shakes his head no. “No thanks, man, I’m dieting.”

Richie raises his eyebrow. “For what? You don’t need to diet, Benny, you’re perfectly in shape.”

Ben doesn’t answer. Fearing he’s struck a bad chord, Richie looks at Mike next. 

“Nah, man, I’m good,” Mike says, waving him off. “Losing weight for wrestling.”

Bill, next. “I already ate four bananas.”

“Why the hell did you eat four bananas, it’s not even nine yet.”

Richie looks over at hot stuff. “C’mon, shorty, you should use the calories. It might bump you up an inch or two.”

He gasps in offense. “Wowww! Wow, Tozier, you’re soooo cool. Wow.”

“Eddie, ma-may-maybe you s-s-should eat something, though,” Bill says thoughtfully. “It’s not like your m-mom cooks anything for you, and even when she does, she has n-no-no idea what seasoning is so her scrambled eggs always taste like r-ru—rubber for some reason.”

(Eddie! That’s his name!!) “Wow, Eds, your mom sucks at cooking? Because I ate pretty good last night on my date with her, if you catch my drift—“

“Shut up, Richie. Shut up.” Eddie warns. “We’ve only known each other for five minutes and you’re already getting on my nerves. Besides, that’s not my name, jackass.”

“Aww, you used my name. I thought I was just ‘trashmouth’ to you.”

“Can I have a donut or not?” Eddie huffs, crossing his arms.

Richie slides the box over to him. “Go crazy, sweet thang.”

—

The first time Eddie Kaspbrak saw Richie Tozier, he knew for a fact what kind of guy he was. 

It was in the middle of freshman year, during the second half of Derry high’s homecoming game. The teams were leg and leg, the night was humid and annoyingly hot, but Eddie didn’t care. Cheering his heart out was his only priority, at the moment, and his stunt group was fucking killing it (the landing of Sarah’s double down was a little off, but hey, at least they got her up into an extension without any problems).

They were in the middle of loading Sarah in for a basket when a loud, laughing voice caught Eddie’s attention. 

Looking up at the stands, only for a moment, he had spotted two boys that stood at the very front of the platform, leaning against the rail. One of them had curly brown hair and what seemed to be a permanent scowl—his blue button-up was definitely not common attire for a high school football game. His nose twisted up at the other boy’s joke in what looked like distaste. 

The other boy was... tall. Yeah, that’s it. He was tall, thin, with messy black hair and thick rimmed glasses. His ugly bright yellow jacket was an absolute eyesore, but it made him stand out. He laughed again, very, very loudly. 

Something about that laugh made Eddie’s skin itch. 

Then Sarah landed directly onto his nose. 

After days of coddling from an extremely concerned and annoying Sonia Kaspbrak, as well as a wasteful hospital visit, Eddie was relieved to find that his nose was only bruised, not broken. He then decided whose fault it was that his stunt failed and his nose was bright fucking purple. 

Fuck that guy and his stupid, dumb, amazing laugh. 

—

Mr. Grey doesn’t come back for hours. All five boys stretch out, bags along with their contents scattered across the tables as they all lounge around the library. Bill lays across a table, snoring, as Mike fidgets with a lighter and Ben wanders around in search of something to read. Eddie and Richie have spent the last thirty minutes in an intense game of hang man, where Eddie has already gotten seven letters wrong. (They’ve spent more time bickering than actually playing the game, but Richie can’t complain. Watching Eddie’s nose scrunch up in anger every time he makes another ‘your mom’ joke is worth every second.)

Richie has, surprisingly, become easily acquainted with all of them. He learns that they all went the same school (the only middle school in Derry, actually) for years and never really ran into each other—he learns that Eddie’s mother is a huge germaphobe and is a parasite clinging onto her son’s life whether she realizes it or not, and that Eddie is a varsity cheerleader (one of only two guys on the team) but pretty much hates every teenage girl in existence. Upon hearing this, Richie ensured that Beverly Marsh would be the only exception to that if the two ever met, but Eddie hadn’t believed him. 

He learns more about Ben, and kind of feels bad about the way he resented him before—sure, Richie always knew that the football player was a huge softie and would never do anything to hurt Beverly, but come on, can you blame him for having mixed feelings? Have you ever met a football player with an ounce of pureness in them? 

There’s also Bill, who doesn’t really do any extracurriculars that Richie would know him from, but he’s an amazing writer and has his pieces published in the school newspaper. He’s also in the process of writing his first book, which is about seven preteen losers who battle an evil clown, which has got to be the weirdest book summary that Richie’s ever seen, but it’s still dope as hell. 

Mike is a super cool wrestler who Richie would definitely want behind him in a fight—he’s protective of his friends and always gives good advice, according to Bill. Richie hopes they’ll be good friends, because advice is exactly what he needs. 

“I want my phone,” Mike whines. “Or... weed.”

“Sorry, Mikey, I t-t-took my stash ou...out of my lo-locker last week,” Bill slurs, suddenly awake. “They were doing searches... because o-of the guy who got cau-caught with a dab pen in the bathroom last month.”

“Who was the guy?” Eddie asks, as Richie draws a crude dick on his small, tanned hands. 

Ben clears his throat, accusatorially, but that’s all that it takes. 

“Richie!!” Eddie exclaims, whacking the boy in the arm. “You got caught with a dab pen?!”

“I was holding it!!” he retorts. “For that guy, Dustin? Dustin Henderson?”

“Dude, rule number one, never hold contraband for people in school, it’s literally public school knowledge.”

“Did you get in trouble? Is that why you’re here?”

“No,” Richie waves off. “I’m here because of my chem teacher, she got mad at me for fidgeting too much. When I got caught with the pen, I got let off the hook because of my dad—a lot of money. A few threats. He’s close with a guy in the school board.”

“You reek of privilege,” Eddie grumbles, looking back down at their hangman paper, and that’s that. “Oh, yeah. The answer is ‘i fucked your mom.’ Very clever, trashmouth.”

“Appreciate it, shorty.”

“I’m not that short.”

—

Eddie knows he’s a short guy. Okay—actually, compared to the girls on his team, he’s average sized, but next to any of the brooding and towering football players, he’s clearly disadvantaged in the height department. It makes him practically invisible in any crowd, and what bigger crowd is there than the annual Derry County Fair?

It was a chilly night in the autumn of Eddie’s sophomore year—the fair was booming with children, teens, and all alike, and Eddie remained insistent on not going on a single ride (after eating two plates of funnel cake, vomiting while riding the Anti-Gravity Twirler was eminent). He stayed behind holding Bill and Bill’s then-girlfriend, Audra’s, bags. 

That’s when he saw him, for the second time ever. The trashmouth king of Derry High. 

Richie Tozier was obviously high. Either that, or drunk, but Eddie wasn’t one to make assumptions. Him and some redheaded girl stumbled through the grass, arm in arm, bucket of popcorn dropping all over the place. It was a mess, really. 

Eddie decided to be chivalrous. He walked over to them. 

Richie Tozier, in all his trashmouth glory, was a lot prettier than people made him seem. Sure, Eddie has seen him before at that football game last year (and he hasn’t forgotten it—the injury to both his nose and his pride was unforgettable on its own), but it was from a distance away and he could only see the gist of Tozier’s appearance; black hair, glasses, pale skin. But now, his hair had gotten more curly and poofy, a nest sticking in all directions that may have been the fault of either puberty or him rolling around on the ground, but whatever. His glasses were covered in dirt and practically dangling off his nose, and his eyes were bloodshot red. Okay, definitely high. Gross. 

He laughed, almost cackled, really, and his cheekbones were sharp. 

The redheaded girl looked up at Eddie first.

“You’re that male... male c-cheerleader, right?” she slurred. 

“Yeah,” he said, offering his hand to help her up. “I’m Eddi—“

“Yooooo,” Trashmouth Tozier interrupted, and suddenly he was leaning over Eddie from behind instead of laying on the floor. “You got any carts?”

The shorter boy scoffed, jumping away as the girl remained on the ground. She began to laugh. “Uh, no? What’s a cart?”

“Like, for a pen,” he said. 

“A writing pen?”

“No, honey,” the girl grinned, almost too soothingly. “A dab pen. You’ve never hit a dab pen?”

“Of course not. Marijuana is a gateway drug,” he huffed, looking around himself. Surely there was someone with them, someone who wasn’t completely out of it. He really didn’t want to be responsible for their safety. 

Speak of the devil and he shall appear, Eddie supposed. 

“Richie!! Beverly!!”

A boy with curly brown hair shoved his way through the crowd, panting in what seemed to be exhaustion. Relief spread across his face as he saw Richie and the girl, Beverly, safely by Eddie’s side. “Oh, thank god.”

“Are they yours?” Eddie asked, awkwardly, as Richie began to play with his hair.

“Yeah,” the boy said, sighing. “Thank you. I’m Stan.”

“Eddie.”

“Hi, Stan,” Beverly cooed, baked as a cake. “Ya want a popcorn?”

“It’s all over the ground, Bev, no. Let’s go home.”

Stan managed to haul Beverly’s limp, swaying body into his arms, carrying her bridal-style as the girl giggled and laid a fat kiss on his cheek. Stan had blushed, but Eddie didn’t think they were romantically involved in the slightest. They didn’t match like that. (Probably just platonic flirting from a comfortable, teasing girl to an uptight, prudent guy.)

“Richie, let’s go.”

“Noooo,” Tozier said, standing directly behind Eddie and resting his chin on the top of the shorter boy’s head, oh dear. “I’ll stay with the little cutie patootie, just look at him. He’s short and mean.”

Eddie blushed. They were standing very close together, definitely too intimately for strangers. He shook the boy off. “No, thanks.”

“Aww, come on, toots, hang out with us!”

“Actually, I’m with—“

“Eddie, w-what’s going on here?”

Thank god for William Denbrough, because like the fucking superman he always has been, him and Audra approached the spectacle in confusion. The girl was still spinning a bit, still dizzy from the ride. 

Stan gave Tozier a look. Richie finally got the hint—two completely different social groups colliding didn’t exactly seem fun. Things were already tense. 

“Uh, later. Thanks, Eddie.”

“It’s cool.”

As the trio walked away, Eddie couldn’t help but stare at the back of Trashmouth’s stupid, pretty, annoying head. 

—

Eddie and Richie end up decide on sneaking out (which, in reality, consisted of Richie pestering Eddie until he finally obliged to go with him) into the hallway and peeking into Grey’s office once a suspiciously large amount of time passes without even being checked on—sure enough, they have a clear view of the man passed out at his desk, mouth agape as he snores. He might be out for hours. 

“We should totally sneak in and take our phones back,” Richie grins maliciously. 

Eddie shakes his head, but still smiles. “No. Too risky. The door will creak.”

“Then can we at least take advantage of the freedom? Let’s go to the cafeteria, I wanna get some chips from the vending machine.”

“The doors are probably locked,” Eddie says. 

Richie pulls Gray’s lanyard of keys out of his pocket.

“Where—Where did you—“

“He left it in the library.” 

“And you didn’t say something?”

“Do you want me to buy you snacks or not?”

Eddie scoffs. “I have money. I’ll buy it myself.”

That is how Richie Tozier and Eddie Kaspbrak ended up laying against the vending machines in the vacant school cafeteria, munching on Hot Cheetos and chugging one bottle of gatorade after the other. They have an extra stash of snacks to bring back to the rest of the guys in detention, but for now, it’s just the two of them against the world. It’s oddly intimate, in a way, considering the fact that Richie barely even knows the guy and they met less than a few hours ago, but it’s okay. It’s not like they’re friends or anything, they’re just occupying time. 

“I mean, I’m not that rich, I think my family is comfortable if anything.”

“Wait, so, your dad is a dentist and your mom is a hair stylist,” Eddie says, head rolling towards Richie as he eats another cheeto. “You live in a two story house, your dad drives a Tahoe and your mom drives a Tesla...”

“Yuh? And?”

“...Never mind. Are your parents cool, at least?”

The short answer would be yes. If you’d define ‘cool’ as not being around enough to prevent their son from doing whatever the fuck he wants, which you probably don’t, then yeah, they’re the coolest fucking parents ever.

Okay. Maybe he shouldn’t give them such a bad wrap. Wentworth is dry but understanding enough, and Maggie is kinda condescending but she really does just want the best for him. They take care of him, keep groceries in the fridge, and don’t ask much from him other than to get good grades. They didn’t make a big deal about his sexuality when they figured it out, and they were nice enough to teach him about safe sex once he got to the age where he was interested in it. They make a decent living, both of them individually making six figure salaries, which is more than enough to afford their big home and keep Richie afloat. He owes a lot to them. 

But that’s a lot to dump on someone you’ve just met. So instead, Richie nods. 

“Yeah? Well, they’re probably no better than my mom. She’s a grade A bitch, but I mean, I still love her. She is my mom, after all.”

“Does she know you do cheer?”

“As far as she’s concerned, I spend all my time after school in the yearbook club,” Eddie says sourly. “Which is honestly a really good excuse. It gives me a reason to be out of the house for games and rallies and stuff.”

“Why would she not like it? Because it’s cheer?”

“Nah, more like because it’s a contact sport. I don’t really give a shit if people call me gay for being a cheerleader.”

Richie feels the beginnings of warmth inside of his chest. That’s a pretty open-minded, noble statement to hear from anyone, but especially someone in Derry. It’s kind of endearing. 

“Respect, man,” he says, patting Eddie’s knee lightly.

“So what is it you do?”

“Your mom.”

“No, asshole, I mean an extracurricular. A club.”

“Nothing, my dearest Eddie Spaghetti. Nothing at all.”

“Not my name, first of all, and secondly, why are you wearing a band t-shirt then?”

“I was a freshman. I don’t do any extra shit anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I’d rather spend my free time getting high, sleeping, and making sweet sweet love to Mrs Kaspbrak.”

Eddie starts to push the boy away from him. “Fuck off.”

“I kid, I kid,” Richie says, laughing a bit, staring at Eddie’s face and taking in his features. Dotted with freckles and a cute little nose and twisted, untamed eyebrows. His hair curls around at his ears and his lips are just so pink.

Richie can’t shake the feeling of familiarity that shoots into his stomach. It could easily be chalked up to the fact that, duh, they go to the same school, Richie has probably seen him around before, but there’s also that bumbling sense of ‘you know him, dipshit!’

He decides not to say anything about it. 

“Why do you fidget so much?” Eddie asks, no malice in his words, but he does seem annoyed. He always seems annoyed. “You’ve been tapping your fingers and feet and stuff all day. Are you just restless or something?”

Oh boy. 

“I have ADHD,” Richie says, shrugging, but the back of his eyes kinda burn. 

Why, you ask? It’s because one time, when Richie was five, his teacher asked him to wait until Cathy Stiller got back from the restroom before he could go—for some reason, he threw a tantrum so explosive that his peers had to evacuate into the hallway. He didn’t have any friends for the rest of the year, after that. When he was 9, he was playing soccer with the boys at recess, and a kid named Johnny shoved him to the floor when Richie ruined his goal. He bit Johnny in the arm so hard that the boy screamed and bled all over the grass, and Richie was suspended for four days. When he was 12, Richie was given a referral for calling his teacher a fat cow after she kicked him out of the classroom for talking too much. When he was 16, his chemistry teacher gave him a detention for fidgeting too much in his seat while doing a worksheet on fucking electrons. 

And it kinda fucking blows when that’s all he’s known by others from, so he doesn’t really like to talk about it unless it’s with the counselor or something. But there’s no point in hiding it, and there’s certainty no point in lying, either, so. That’s why he tells Eddie. 

“Oh,” Eddie says, and then casually adds, “My cousin from Ohio has ADHD, too.”

Richie’s heart kinda flutters at the casual response—none of the panicked, rushed apologies like he normally gets when he tells people, or even the slightly hurtful ‘oh, that makes sense.’ Just... complete normalcy. It’s new. 

Eddie is just a breath of fresh air, really. 

—

The third time Eddie saw Richie Tozier was when he was walking into detention. He was only ten minutes late, he was tired, annoyed, and starving, and then Mr Grey decided to punish Eddie by making him sit next to the trashmouth. Then, a few hours later, they’re sitting against a vending machine after sneaking out of the library, talking about nothing and everything and all of the bullshit in between. 

And Eddie feels this sort of draw to the boy that he’s never felt before. 

—

Eventually the two boys deliver snacks to the guys in the library, where they’re practically worshiped as if they brought the body of christ. After several hours past their usual lunch time, even Ben and Mike shoved aside the thought of their dieting and opted for chowing down on several chip bags, sodas, and granola bars in a fit of hungry desperation. 

As detention ends a few hours later and Mr. Gray finally returns, passing out the boys’ phones begrudgingly and wishing them a horrible weekend, Bill exchanges contact information with Richie with the pretense of inviting him to hang out with them soon—which is, of course, super fucking cool and somewhat boosts Richie’s self confidence. He also gets all of their instagram and snapchat accounts, and upon a bit of (subtle) stalking, he comes to find that not only are all of them incredibly fun and attractive, but also incredibly beloved by everyone in the school community. That’s a feat Richie has never seemed to accomplish. 

All in all, today’s going pretty good. 

—

Richie ends up sneaking out through his bedroom window at one in the morning. His parents had already fallen fast asleep, the house dead in the night, but he had found that he could not do the same. There’s also the issue that he’s had blue balls for the past two hours, with only one person on his mind who could possibly fix it. 

And, well. Connor’s home alone, so. 

The Bowers household is only a few blocks away from Richie’s own (surprising, considering the broad difference in the Tozier family’s monetary status. Let’s just say that Richie’s parents have good careers and the family isn’t exactly struggling, while Henry Bowers, on the other hand, can’t seem to afford a decent haircut. Either that or the mullet is some sort of atrocious fashion statement, which again, yuck). Connor texts Richie with the instructions to walk around to the backyard, to the guest house, where he’s been staying. It’s a homey old thing. 

“Hey, handsome,” Connor grins as soon as he opens the door for Richie, pulling him down from his collar for a kiss. His pajama pants hang low on his hips, tank top defining his toned arms and chest, and Richie can’t help the blush that spreads to the tip of his ears. He’s just so fucking attractive. 

“Hey, hot stuff,” Richie replies back, fingers lacing the back of Connor’s neck and head as he walks them both inside, shutting the door behind them. He also locks it, just in case. They don’t want a repeat of last time. 

—

Since the two boys figure that they have all the time in the world (Henry is spending the night with Hockstetter and most likely won’t be home until tomorrow night, and Chief Bowers is out of town for a funeral), they don’t exactly rush into anything. Instead, they sit around on the couch while smoking Connor’s stash of joints, laughing at each other over nothing, and blasting rap music. So far, it seems like the only bad thing about Connor is his horrible music taste. 

The conversation goes from music, to a concert that Connor went to in 7th grade, to his weird, rocky relationship with Henry, to the reason why he moved to Derry (disciplinary issues at his old school, plus an alcoholic mother and a judge order for him to live with a relative instead). Then, it goes from how Richie knew he was gay, to his parents’ jobs, to his ‘trashmouth’ title, then to Gretta Keene. 

“You’re gonna be grossed out,” Richie says, taking a little drag from his joint. “But Gretta Keene was actually my first kiss.”

Connor’s eyes blow wide. His jaw hangs open, sputtering, as Richie begins to laugh. “Ugh! How?!”

“I don’t know!” he grins, coughing on smoke a little. “I think... okay, it was in fourth grade, during recess. I saw Gretta shoving Stan down the slide, and he fell on the molch and started crying. Then she started laughing at him, called him a ‘priss’, and said he had cooties. So I went up to her, gave her a fat kiss on the lips, and said ‘Well, he may have cooties, but now you have herpes.’”

“Oh. My. God.”

“I didn’t actually have herpes, y’know.”

“Duh, I’m not an idiot. How did you get away with that?”

“I didn’t. I almost got a referral, but then they were like ‘oh, he has special needs’ and decided not to do anything about it.”

Connor makes a face. “What do you mean?”

A bad feeling settles in Richie’s gut. There’s no point in lying, though.

“Oh. You...you don’t know? I have ADHD.”

Then, at the same time Connor’s face drops,Richie’s stomach does the same. The air gets more tense—more thick between them. 

“Oh,” Connor blurts. “I, uh, didn’t know that.”

“Yeah...”

“But aren’t you, like, in advanced classes and shit?”

Richie frowns a little. “Yeah, but—“

“But I thought... hm. Never mind. Whatever.”

The mood has shifted. 

And Richie doesn’t really feel like having sex anymore. So half an hour or so later, Richie finishes his joint, pretends to get a text from his mom, and bullshits some excuse to leave because ‘his mom found his room empty and is losing her shit, so he has to leave right now.’

So he gets home at three, the moonlight shining through his room, and as he guiltily jerks off he thinks of brown hair, freckles, and vending machine gatorade. Because apparently, the world hates him enough to give him another hopeless crush. 

—


End file.
